


Two Flyboys Walk into a Bar

by Owl_by_Night



Series: Birdie's Tale [2]
Category: Dunkirk (2017), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night
Summary: A missing scene from the first Birdie fic because my two favourite flyboys have to meet sometime. Knowledge of the Ungentlemanly universe isn't really needed.On his way back from Dunkirk, Collins is stranded in London and waiting for a train home. Fortunately he bumps into fellow pilot William: two flyboys walk into a bar and share a drink.





	Two Flyboys Walk into a Bar

William meets the kid outside the club, fumbling around in his pockets for the price of admission. He thinks ‘kid’ but the other pilot isn’t much younger than him. He just has this shocked look about him that makes him look younger, gazing at the man on the door like he can’t work out why he’s got empty pockets in his salt stained uniform. William knows there’s only one way you get a uniform that looks like that and he’s read enough of the newspaper on the train.

“Dunkirk?” he asks, and fishes out the money for another ticket.

The kid, Collins as he finds out later, says he ditched a few miles out. “There’s no train back until tomorrow. Thought I’d have a drink but...” he shrugs. They don’t usually carry money when they fly. Even if he did there's every chance it's at the bottom of the sea bed by now.

“Let me buy you a drink then,” William says. It’s half solidarity with any pilot who’d choose this bar to have a beer when he’s just been fished out of the briny and half because the lad’s Scottish and it reminds him sharply of Grant, who used to sound like that until he got it knocked out of him at school. Grant can still put it on if he wants though. Always been good at accents. The fluttery feeling in the pit of William’s stomach is back, like the one he gets before take-off. Jesus, he hopes Grant’s out there somewhere, on his way home. Maybe he’s on a boat already.

He asks Collins what it was like and watches his face go grim. Worse than the papers said then. No surprise there. They’re perched on stools at the end of the bar and William flicks his fingers at the barman to ask for another pint. Collins protests. William has already paid enough.

“I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to... I’m not... there’s someone.” Collins falters, his face creasing with the effort of looking nonchalant and only managing to look horribly young again. “At least there was. He was there.  Today.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” William reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes hard and Collins ducks his head. “And for what it’s worth, I’m not trying anything. I’ve got a friend over there. If you helped him or anyone else get off those beaches, I’d buy you a drink just for that.”

Collins takes a gulp of his beer and then another. “He RAF too, this friend of yours?”

“BEF,” William says gloomily. “He was in the bloody army before this even started. Wish I thought he had the sense to get on the first boat home but he’s the heroic type.”

He watches two WAAFs swinging each other round on the dance floor, and two bomber boys leaning heavily together while they sway to the music, and he thinks of the last time he came here with Grant. He’d been horrified, swearing he’d promised himself his days of dancing with William were done when they’d stopped dancing lessons at school. They’d spent the night at the bar instead, talking rubbish about hoping it would all be over soon. Not quite ‘by Christmas’ but at least not as long a war as the last.

William had meant to find some company this evening. He’d had a pleasant idea of someone to dance with and maybe a fumble in the alley behind the club since he doesn’t have a room he can take someone back to. Something about Collins stops him. The bleak look maybe. The accent. Perhaps just his tangled, matted hair and the rings of white salt mixed with patches of oil on his sleeves. He doesn't look like a man who should be left alone right now.

They wrangle over the relative merits of the Spitfire vs the Wellington: fighter command against bomber. It’s an old argument. William wouldn’t admit it in a hundred years but he’d like to try his hand at a Spit. Just once. Before he goes back to a proper crate.

Collins looks guilt stricken when he remembers he left his girl on the bottom of the seabed. Fortunately William has had his own first prang recently and can sympathise, although he left pieces of aircraft scattered over a field rather than in water. He left his rear gunner with it but he doesn’t mention that. Not the time. Not with Collins very carefully _not_ mentioning the name of the pilot he flew with.

It’s getting late now, although the club isn’t fussy about when they stop serving. If the police turn up there’s more than that to worry about. William asks Collins if he’s got any plans for the rest of the night.

“Thought I’d just go back to the station. My train is in...ah fuck.” He frowns at his watch, which evidently hasn’t survived being doused in salt water.

“Sure you don’t want somewhere to kip for the night? I’m sharing with my crew but we’d squeeze you in somehow.”

“I’ve imposed enough. Best get back there first thing anyway. I’ll find a spot at the station.”

The station won't be the most comfortable place to rest now they’ve started taking all the benches away for the metal, but at least it's only a few hours until the milk trains start running. They walk out to the door together, preparing to go their separate ways. Collins thanks him again for the drinks. William laughs it off.

“If I see you again, you can buy me a drink then.”  They agree, even though it’s unlikely they’ll ever meet again. Honour is satisfied.

“Collins?” William says just as Collins is reaching for the door handle. When Collins turns back, William kisses him. Short and sweet.

“For luck,” he says.

Collins had looked momentarily fierce before William spoke but now he smiles ruefully. “That’s what he said.”

“You look after yourself, alright? Even if you fly Spits.”

Collins’ face relaxes into a proper smile. William can see what that other pilot saw in him. Lucky bastard. He hopes Collins isn't the pining type. It'd be a damn shame.

“You too then.” Collins says, offering his hand to shake. “I hope your friend gets back.”

William shrugs. Saying anything more feels like jinxing it. He’s got to keep hoping and pretending not to have any hope at all: trusting that Grant will somehow make it home and not thinking too closely about the odds.

They part at the doorway and William watches Collins go: a dark blue shadow blending into the darkness of the blackout. There’s just enough light starting to come back into the sky that William hopes he’ll get back to the station without coming a cropper on the unlit pavement.

William looks up and takes a deep breath. Not what he planned for tonight, but a good night all the same. He tucks his hands in his pockets and sets off whistling to find the rest of his crew.


End file.
